


Grecian Friends

by Dandeliona



Category: Ancient History RPF, Classical Greece and Rome History & Literature RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandeliona/pseuds/Dandeliona
Summary: Atticus teaches Cicero a lesson or two in being friends - the Greek way... Come on, you know what I mean.





	Grecian Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atticus Mr Popular](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Atticus+Mr+Popular).



His name was Titus Pomponius Atticus, and he was the first friend I ever made, and the only true one I should ever have in the course of my life.  
Sometimes, when the sun is blazing down from the sky, and the taste of the sea breeze lies in the air, I think back to the days of our youth - certainly not innocent but yet deprived of too much responsibility. We only were names, not duties, two faces in the sun and two feet in the sand.  
And, sometimes, if I sit around, deprived of sleep and drowsy, visions encounter me.

We are sitting in the sand, the sun has set already and is only visible as a glimmend flame above the horizon. Atticus - even though back then he had not yet earned this name - turned and faced me. He looked like he wanted to say something, but, instead, he suddenly placed a kiss upon my lips. I flinched. "What are you doing?"  
"Kissing you." He had always been one of the cheeky personages who try to get away with stating the obvious.  
"Yes, but... why?"  
"Because you are my friend and I like you."  
"Do friends kiss each other?"  
"Of course. Why not?"  
"Why should they?"  
"Because I like you as a friend and want to show my appreciation to you."  
"But not by kissing...?"  
"How else should I, then?"  
I pondered. "I... don't know. I just feel like it is something not appropriate."  
"Well, I assure you that it is not."  
"Kissing a good friend is something unheard of."  
"Kissing your best is not. There are hundreds of young and old men around Greece and Athens kissing the ones they like best, aren't there?"  
Yes, there were. Only that I was young, and not entirely sure whether these people were indeed just friends. I was generally a knowledgable young man, just like him, but utterly inexperienced in all matters I had not read anything about. And I had taken care to never be encountered with a book about SUCH matters. Not that I had enough of the right social contacts to get my hands safely on the few pieces of literature dealing with something along the lines of sexuality. That was why I had been immensely proud to call Atticus my friend - because he was always welcomed by everyone and there seemed to be no person not liking, or, at least, respecting him. He was two years my senior, and had such a confident stance with such wide shoulders that it made you want to rest against him on the long, straining walk anywhere. Not to say that he was, always, immensely persuasive. I was sure if I could call Atticus my friend, the world's gates would open for me.  
"Indeed, there are", I agreed.  
"You see?", and he closed his eyes, enjoying the last few tangerine gleams of the sun, which now, finally, took her bath inside the sea.  
From this day on, he kissed me frequently. Mostly, when we were alone, for he noticed my discomfort in social situations although others did not seem to mind when he pressed his lips gently to my cheek as long as he did not turn me from my lessons. The small pecks onto my cheeks, forehead and lips bit after bit developed into soft caresses, subtle glances and whispered invitations to the beach. I did not mind. I was always one to enjoy attention, to be honest; was even ridiculed for that in my later days. I did not think about it. All the things I thought so much - too much - about, but these, I did not pay any mind. He was my friend, wasn't he? Would a friend lead another friend to do something harmful? Seduce him to do something evil, weird? Not in my sheltered, insecure for young world. He did no wrong. Not in his nor my mind back then. And, to my shame, I enjoyed his soft lips pressed to mine, his hands gliding, occasionally, over my skin. I was surprised when his tongue found his way into my mouth, but I liked it. I was ashamed to like it because it provoked unknown feeling in my body and soul, but I was reluctant to say no. I was reluctant to day anything at all already, why should I say no now? Especially to Atticus, my friend. My mind was dizzy with wine and tingling, nonetheless that evening my voice croaked, as he put his tongue in. 'This is not what friends do', I thought, 'Isn't this what a man does to a woman?'  
"Atticus", I pleaded. "What was that?"  
He was annoyed. He never was annoyed. "Have I not already explained that to you?"  
"Yes, but you can't tell me this is what -"  
"Friends are doing?"  
He pressed me onto the sand and leaned down to my face; I could smell the sharpness of undiluted wine in his breath: "I can tell you, what men are doing to men in Athens", he whispered. His voice was low and husky, and there was a sudden glimmer in his eyes that made them glow and simmer with something hard to look at. It was as if something had been unleashed inside him, a dark god, grasping and clenching his heart in his fist. I was mesmerized. Hypnotized. So fixated on this unknown expression of the face I held dearest in these strange and terrifying countries that I almost forgot to breathe. "They press each other onto their beds, or whatever hard surface they can find", his face dropped even lower and I could tell he was drunk, "and then", he gripped my knees - his nails digging in through the cloth of my toga - and pushed them apart almost violently. Something tore, I heard it ripping, "one spreads the legs for the other and they rub their swollen genitals, their mouths and bodies against each other."  
I stared at him with wide eyes. His lips were hovering above mine, and he stole a kiss, somehow caring and tender and at the same time passionate.  
"How...", I said. I do not know what I wanted to say. But before I could think of something his glance looked at me ruefully, with unusual melancholy before he suddenly rose up, I thought to leave, but instead he shoved my tunic up and buried his head in between my legs. I screamed in sudden shock, shuddered, scared of the violent feeling which, in the next second, overtook me. I was used to being composed, in control, and, therefore, now, I was afraid. I felt something wet there - his mouth, his tongue? - something hot and twitching. "No, Pomponius, no", I pleaded into the air. "Please", I shrieked and shuddered, and at the same time, because of need for better judgement, enveloped his head and hair in my arms. "Please!" The heat mingled with sudden moisture and I was tightly enclosed by a trembling, soft and utterly wet hotness before I lost my head, and there was only my voice echoing into the empty darknesss on the beach, Atticus' hair and sand underneath my fingertips, and a so sweet, delightful happiness filling my mind up to the brink, vehement and sudden like tasting honey on the tip of your tongue.  
Afterwards, it felt like I hand woken up after a long period of deep, dreamless sleep. My head rested on his thigh, and he caressed the sand out of my locks. "I like you", he whispered. I wanted to say something. "More than just a friend." Had I not feared exactly that? "I do know by now that you are slow on the uptake, but can't you, at least, see that?"  
Atticus had always been like that. Concise. Clear. Everything had always been so easy to and for him. I needed sentences. Long and elaborate ones. With the most complicated things he only ever really needed one. It was a shame he had decided not to become a statesman. But maybe because of that. Because all things were too easy to him. You see the birds, but you loose track of single feathers. 

We never talked about that again. I never gave him an answer. He never kissed me again after that. Even though I sometimes longed for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for any mistakes. English is not my native language while I am working towards majoring in it in a few years. Punctuation of the dialogue parts is in German style - because I still need to figure out the English way.
> 
> I actually do not even entirely ship them. They remind me way too much of my friends. This... just got out of me somehow :D. I already see the great master standing next to me as a ghost and shaking his head disappointedly.  
> Nonetheless I can imagine Atticus as a homosexual. Epicureism seems to me as quite the good "excuse" for gays back in the day: I can't marry, it's a nuisance. I'll just have a garden in a secluded spot and lots of FRIENDS. 
> 
> F*****g  
> Right,  
> I  
> Eat  
> New  
> D***s  
> Selflessly.  
> Copyright by me. Lol.
> 
> (Update by author: I actually worked towards shipping these two much more. But I now breathe M. T. Cicero x everyone. He is too hot for fandom monogamy, lol.)


End file.
